Selfless
by Casxandra V
Summary: John struggles to live his life without Sherlock, and while recovering from the tragic experience between two shocks in his life, Sherlock is suddenly back. Just as John and Sherlock were getting used to themselves again, another case interests Sherlock that would unravel a lover that his companion, John, would have. Along the process, John encounters a nemesis. Or was it his?
1. Chapter 1

**SELFLESS**

**BY: ALLY V.**

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No part of this book may be reproduced in any means without author consent.

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Copyright © 2013 by Ally V. All rights reserved. Sherlock is BBC accredited. Characters are in the most valuable and precious works of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle from his famous books of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

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**CHAPTER ONE-**

_"It's my note. That's what they do, don't they?"_

_I didn't answer._

_"Leave a note," He added._

_"Leave a note when?" I stalled, struggling from breathing._

_Please. Please answer. Please talk. Keep talking. Please._

_Any minute now, people would've sensed a man on the rooftop. So please, please keep talking._

_But Sherlock was smart. He knew that I was trying to stall him, to draw attention to him. He was about to end his life. I can't let that happen. Not now._

_"Goodbye, John."_

_He threw his phone down. It staggered bellow the building right before he was at verge of falling himself. Eight stories at height, the phone burst in collateral damage no one could fix. Soon, Sherlock would be that phone. Broken, and never to be used again._

_Ever._

_I wasn't going to let that happen again. Not this time._

_"No!"_

"Sherlock!" I woke up, crying in my sleep again. Probably waking the neighbors up. The usual. There was nothing new about that.

_"It's just a dream," I though, "just the same nightmare."_

But even if it wasn't a dream, two years to forget about a specific tragic event and replaying it in your head was enough to drive someone insane. How the hell were you going to forget about something when it was so constant?

I calmed myself down, sitting down on my bed. I held my head, soothing my sweat covered head with my hands.

_'Deep breaths,'_ I thought. I needed to relax.

That's how I live my life now. Half insane-driven madman who kept on clinging to the past for two whole years, hoping a dead man would live again.

I knew it was impossible, but there was no way I'm going to swallow the fact that Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, is dead.

But two years? That was enough.

Let's face it. My best friend is dead. I'm all alone with no money and no job.

But my best friend didn't lie. Sherlock was never guilty of something. Sherlock's got a plan, even if he's dead, he's got a plan. He wouldn't leave people out of nothing.

Or did Sherlock?

A battle between thoughts kept me dazed. Sherlock's unpredictable. The moment you knew what he was going to do, you end up getting it wrong. Sherlock's smart enough to think ahead, to always be one step forward from everyone else.

The whole of reality rewinds again and again in my head like a whirlpool of torture, there's nothing I can do to stop the memories but to wait for them to finish.

The tears never stopped.

I still remember the blood-spawned smell in the air, falling on the ground and checking his pulse, getting disappointed, trying not to cry. The crew shoved me away from the limp Sherlock, checking any signs of shock, making me follow the light, asking if I was dizzy, getting my blood pressure. I'm a doctor, I knew they suspected I was in shock. I tried to avoid showing them, but that never meant I wasn't in any.

I should have stayed with him. I shouldn't have fallen for the fake call. I knew that he plotted this, realizing the call. I should have known it was coming.

I didn't go back to the flat, not until I knew I couldn't afford a full price one. Mrs. Hudson gave me special treatment, to live there with half-price financial responsibility. Sherlock was able to give his share in the flat for about three years. He didn't want me to suffer.

Why didn't he warn me? I could've been prepared. I could've moved on now, knowing he has a plan even if he was dead. Probably he thought I would stop him from dying, which I would most probably do.

I checked the wall clock; it was seven in the morning. Beside it was the picture of Sherlock and me. I smiled. But memories flooded in my mind, the whole scene replaying in my head. I wanted to scream, _'get out of my head!'_ But I never wanted to forget. Not him. Not ever.

The smile faded.

I reached for my phone for text messages.

_'3pm sharp. St. Barts. I need you here. It's dangerous. Will you come? –Molly H.'_

_'What danger? –JW,'_I replied.

_'Truth. –M,'_

I Didn't understand, but coming from Molly, it wasn't exactly nothing that she contacted me. She never really did, after the fall. And even before, it would always be, _'Is Sherlock alright? x MH,'_ or _'Has Sherlock eaten? x MH'_

I couldn't blame her. She fancied Sherlock. I can't imagine why. He was arrogant, boastful and too serious. Not only to Molly, but to everyone else.

But at the same time he was nice and funny, if you get to know him. He's always boastful, though.

I'm proud to get to know him, no matter how he treated me like his personal nanny, buying what he needed at the store, cleaning up the flat, organizing his room. He wouldn't even take the trash out. It was always I'm busy or some other reasons which seemed so much like him. He was an unbearable flat mate. I didn't even think I was going to take that long with him.

But when he died, it was like the world itself died with him. I didn't bother cleaning the flat. I wanted to pretend he was still here. That somewhere, Sherlock is alive.

I guess it was true that you only realize someone's worth when he's gone.

I went down the stairs dressed with my jumper. It was the same jumper I used the day we chased a serial killer cab driver. On the third stair before the ground, a round, slightly hard object hit the heel of my shoe. I skidded down the short flight of stairs and hit my bottom not hard enough for me to yell, fortunately. I checked the staircase for the object, and as it turned out, it was a ball. The same black ball Sherlock was playing with during the day he was going to die.

The ball rolled down the staircase. I picked it up and examined it carefully. It really is the ball. But how can it be here?

It can't be.

I frowned, walking towards the door. I turned to see if someone saw the trip. Gladly, no one did. I held on to the ball as I stopped for the coat rack. I took my coat and slid the ball inside the pockets.

I lifted my arms to twist the doorknob, only to stop an already swung door. I frowned. I couldn't remember opening the door.

Shock. It's the shock talking.

Stepping outside, Sherlock's hat was on the rug. I picked it up and placed it back, dazed at what was happening.

Text. Hat. Rug. Door.

Nothing was making sense today.

Dear Lord, have I finally gone mad?

The cab ride was silent. Sherlock wasn't there to deduce everything we saw that would seem so regular to me. Sherlock wasn't there to tell me how boring I am, and how noticeable the things he saw were. In the end, I would agree how noticeable they really were. I just wasn't paying attention. Just like how I didn't pay attention to the fake phone call and then falling for it.

I arrived at Saint Barts by a quarter to three. Helping myself with a cup of tea at the new café boutique at the front of the hospital.

The clerk handed me the paper cup. He wore a hat that covered half of his face.

I frowned. Most of the clerks would ask customers to come again, but this man was different. Not a word was out of his mouth. He's like a ghost.

I walked to the automatic doors of the hospital. My leg crumpled and the pain excruciated to my hand. The tea almost fell, together with me.

Almost.

The clerk saved my dignity before strangers, including himself. I still couldn't see his features behind the hat.

"How did you—" I asked, cutting myself off. Too much strangeness was happening around me today. That was enough to keep me up for an entire night. I wasn't going to add another mystery.

The clerk helped me up, and fled to the boutique. He didn't say a word until I turned before going inside the hospital.

An eye was looking at me. I couldn't work the features because of the blaring sun. My eyes hurt.

"Watch out, John," He warned. Okay, that was too much. He knows me? The clerk had a husky and deep voice. The voice was familiar, but my mind was too occupied to process too much information to search for in my head. All I knew was that this was too much.

My leg hurt as I limped up slowly to the staircase but I didn't mind the pain; I was too busy working out the strangeness around me. It was too much to comprehend to.

Before opening the rooftop door, I noticed a strange sticky-note on my tea.

_'Watch out. -SH'_

Sherlock Holmes.

I tried to deduce the hidden agenda of today. It was quite strange; the text, the ball, the door, the hat, the clerk, and now the note? Was I really going mad or…

_'But it can't be. He's dead.'_

_'But the clerk's voice'._

_'No, John, he's dead!'_

Great. And now I'm having a mental discussion with myself. I really am going mad.

I swung the door open.

"Molly, I think I've gone m—" I spoke, looking up to see a Molly with a healthy, different Sherlock beside her.

My mouth flung open.

I walked to the Sherlock to confirm, circling him. His hair was trimmed, and he wasn't wearing a coat. He wore a polo tucked to his jeans and a smirk on his face. Molly was smirking herself, too.

I closed my mouth.

"Dear lord," I whispered.

"Funny, normal people would shake hands to acknowledge an existence after not seeing each other for an amount of time," The alien spoke. There was no way he was Sherlock. "But you're not a normal person, are you, John?"

"He's real. Go ahead and touch him," Molly joked.

I gulped and placed my hand to his shoulders and poked his cheek. Molly giggled.

"John…"

"I know, I'm sorry."

I placed my hand down.

He's alive. He's really alive. And I didn't know.

He didn't tell me.

This man is impossible.

My fist balled up and flew to his face. He howled, skidding down the cemented roof. Molly ran to him, comforting his every bit.

She knew too?

"You're dead," I gritted through my teeth.

He stood, "John, I will if you…"

My hand flew again. Molly flinched.

"And you knew all along?"

"Well of course she does! She fed me for the past two years. It's not her fault, John. I was selfish. I didn't want you to know. Now please, stop!"

"Oh, so you decided to leave me without a single sign then go searching for a home? Is that it, Sherlock?"

"John, I never intended to—"

"But you still did, Sherlock, and that's what matters. I can't believe how unbelievable you are!"

"That's the point of unbelievable!"

I sighed, calming myself.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay, Sherlock. Explain."

He wobbled himself up, rolling his sleeves up.

"I had to complete his story, John."

"And why, exactly?"

Sherlock looked directly at me, as if to see everything I knew by simply looking in my eye. He sighed, clearing his mind.

"Because it was your life at stake. It was either I die, or Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you will."

"So you decided to jump to…"

"Save your lives."

"But I still don't understand, then why two years? You could have showed yourself earlier."

"Do you really think Sherlock didn't think of that?" Molly asked. "Jimmy's a smart person, John. He died, but his people didn't," She added. "As soon as Jimmy's no longer someone to be remembered, only then Sherlock could see you. When Jimmy's men di—"

"Didn't see me a threat anymore," Sherlock finished her sentence. "Thank you, Molly."

"But you could've given a sign."

"That's what I told him," She whispered, enough for us to hear.

"And risk your life?" Sherlock added.

That was the day Sherlock Holmes, My best friend, was alive once again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two-**

Molly left us alone. She forgot to feed her cats again. The same alibi Molly used when we almost hooked up together three months after the fall.

Sherlock and I decided to eat out, but to conserve out budget; we've just planned to eat at Mrs. Hudson's restaurant.

The cab ride was almost normal, except, Sherlock wasn't wearing his usual clothes. But he still was Sherlock. The same cocky and arrogant attitude that seemed to see the slightest dent in everyone.

We arrived at Mrs. Hudson's restaurant shortly. I paid the cabbie, treating Sherlock the ride. Like what I always do in the old times.

Mrs. Hudson didn't turn around when her window-chime rang at the door of her business. She kept on chopping the garlic. She seemed in tears, but then I saw an already chopped onion at the side of the plate.

"Er—"I interrupted.

"Oh, hello, John." She said, not turning her head up. "What can I do for you?"

Sherlock coughed, grabbing her attention. Mrs. Hudson held the plate with the garlic and onion before looking at us. Her mouth opened and the plate fell on the floor. Luckily, no one was inside the restaurant at that time.

Then, Mrs. Hudson did the only thing I haven't seen her doing from the past two years. She smiled.

"I still can't believe it," Mrs. Hudson repeated for the nth time. No one could possibly do. I myself am still in doubt weather to believe that Sherlock's actually alive. Sherlock was never dead.

_Sherlock was never dead!_

"Yes, well, Mrs. Hudson, I believe no one would," Sherlock enounced.

"John kept your room warm for you," Mrs. Hudson said as she fixed the curl-some spikes of Sherlock's new hair. "Now didn't you, John?"

I blushed, spitting the juice that Mrs. Hudson served us. "Yes, yes, I did."

"That's very nice of you, John. I do hope you haven't been keeping a shag buddy," Sherlock joked. He actually _joked!_

"No," I confirmed. "But I will if you don't stop publicizing me."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, "It's so nice to have both of you around again."

"Sherlock and I are not going anywhere, Mrs. Hudson. Not anymore. Can you assure that, Sherly?"

Sherlock raised a brow, "Don't call me Sherly. And yes, Mrs. Hudson. We won't be. Just later, I and John are going to rendezvous."

We planned to go for a movie after dinner. I decided it was good to try something new, rather than solve cases after cases, run after on-the-loose-serial-killers. Who knows, how ever unpredictable Sherlock is, he might enjoy a romance-comedy.

Sherlock unpacked his new things, coming from Molly's credit card. He promised her he would pay for the things he let Molly spend for him. Molly insisted not to, but Sherlock's got to retrieve his ego sometimes.

A whole variety of clothes sprung out of his luggage. New things I never thought he'd wear, like those tight shirts. I understood that knowing him should be normal to go out with no clothes at all, but it was never his style to wear what wasn't _his_ style. Understandable; he was undercover.

"How are they?" He phrased.

"Hm?"

"The girls. You've been having a lot lately."

I sighed. He's deducing again. "Three, Sherlock."

"Oh really? Then how come I can smell varieties of perfumes? How many." Sherlock demanded, rather than questioned.

"How do you know they just like changing scents?"

"There are panties in your room, two of them. Both are quite different in style. A mature formal and a teenage fun one. There's an Indian-printed bag in the coat shack near our door, can't be Mrs. Hudson's, can't be yours, it's not modern, it's not formal. So that's another girl. About eight perfumes and only the young girl, probably seventeen, experiments with scents. The others are old enough to know their kind of scents. Lipstick-tinted tissue in the rubbish, about two days old, dark— someone about thirty would use it, and the mature scent's fading off, which makes her different from the one who used the lipstick. I can say you've had about, let me see, five to seven girls with you in the past two months."

I kept silent. Sherlock faced me, as if to wait for my answer.

Affirmative, he's still an unbearable flat mate. That sonovabitch.

"I hate you," I whispered.

"Sarcasm?" He squinted his eyes.

I sarcastically waved my head and mumbled, "_no."_

"Hm. Thank you, John," He acknowledged.

All of the sudden, the world turned out to be something better than what I expected it would be after his death, the flat didn't seem so empty, but then again, I was living with the same bastard I lived with for three years. And he's very much alive than anyone else. I looked dead-er.

I can't wait to buy eggs, open the fridge and see a human heart, get home only to find a bloody samurai sword on top of the table, solve another mystery, and… You get the idea. But most of all, I can't wait to spend time with an annoyingly smart bastard who kept me crying for his fake death for about two years.

This man is impossible.

Dinner was amazing. Mrs. Hudson roasted a chicken and made shake for Sherlock's return. She seemed so happy about her "boys" back. I haven't seen Mrs. Hudson smile like that for so long. She looked like Sherlock, solving a triple-murder scene. And believe me; the highly functioning sociopath seemed happier than winning a house and lot.

"Pardon me for asking but," Mrs. Hudson interrupted Sherlock from his deduction, "Shouldn't we invite Greg over? At least?"

"Sherlock isn't publ—"

"Mycroft's coming over for lunch tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson. I expect a nice meal on the platter by eleven, and John, please do the talking. You know well I don't socialize with lower life forms. Today will be a day I spend with John."

"Are you sure about that, Sherlock? Do you want the publicity around?"

"Yes, John. I want things as normal as they were before I—I fell."

Sherlock struggled from using the word, "dead," to explain his former position. He's quite right to, knowing his existence.

"Just to remind you, love, I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reminded.

We laughed like old times.

After dinner, we proceeded to watch a movie, or as Sherlock called it, rendezvous. Sherlock wore a black hoodie for undercover circumstances. Within a distance, you would've thought I was with a teenage boy who would seem to be my son.

We watched a rom-com film. Sherlock didn't look as interested, but I forced him to watch some glimpse. He managed to chuckle at some scenes, but most of the time, he would've been looking at the seat in front of him, or elsewhere. Probably guessing their gravest secrets.

When Sherlock didn't seem entertained in any bit, he stood up. The crowd behind him persuaded him to sit down, but Sherlock kept silent. He only spoke to excuse himself from the people he's passing by.

I followed Sherlock shortly afterwards. I got the initial reaction to which they gave Sherlock, the splashing of popcorn and profanity.

I found Sherlock sitting at the cinema lobby without the hood on his head.

"I'm alright," Sherlock barely whispered.

"I didn't say you aren't."

I sat down beside him and he seemed to avoid my eyes. This wasn't the Sherlock that I knew. He looked lonely, like the face he wore at the lab before the fall.

"No, I'm definitely saying you're not alright. Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm so sorry, John."

"Wha—"

"I'm so sorry for leaving you behind, not even giving a sign. I felt like a coward, not being able to pass the message to you."

"Okay, Okay, Sherlock," I frowned. "Look at me."

He looked, "You look like a mess."

"I know, but now that you're here, I can change. Everything will be fine. No need to be sorry for anything. I'm glad you saved my life. I just didn't understand what you were trying to do, that's all. Just promise me you wouldn't do that again."

Sherlock kept silent.

I knew he wouldn't promise.

We went back to the movie house. I felt disappointed about Sherlock. He'd do the same thing again if he needed to. But I just can't let him.

If ever that time comes, and it will most probably do, I swear I'll stop if before the limits crash.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three-**

I woke up before Sherlock did the next day, just like old times. Either I wake up before him, or he didn't sleep at all. The sky's busy down pouring the streets with glistening rainwater. The sky rattled with thunder. Afraid of disturbing the consulting detective's deep sleep, I decided checking on him would be nice to make sure he was comfortable back in his room.

Yes, it was his room again.

I opened the door only to see a man soundly asleep on the chair next to his bed. Strange, why hadn't he slept on the bed? The bed's just beside him. I can't see why he—oh. Right.

Then I saw it.

A clutter of clothes sprang on the bed. They were the clothes he normally wore, not the new ones that Molly bought him for undercover circumstances.

I can't believe him. He really is serious about going public again, knowing he wanted to contact Mycroft would have been the same as slapping the world's attention towards him.

But that's not going to ruin my new days with him.

I quietly shut the door, tiptoeing to the kitchen. I opened the fridge and saw a frog, neatly dissected at the middle of the compartment just beside the cold crumpets. I smiled, happy that Sherlock's sensible nonsense was back again, the paradox is back again!

I took the crumpets to the table and pre-heated them to the toasters. They plopped up hot and ready. Sherlock doesn't really eat breakfast, I myself stopped eating breakfast after the fall, but I made us some anyways. The butter was on top on the crumpets. They melted instantly, without the help of a bread knife to spread them.

I served tea with the crumpets, laying them to cool on the table.

The butter was on the counter when by accident, I hit the silver container with my hand. The yellow colour of my dairy product skidded down to my shirt.

I cursed under my breath.

Ah, profanity.

Shutting my room, I remembered what Sherlock had said. There were two bras inside. I looked around, checking for any signs. Under the bed was one, and another was at my window pane.

How could he've noticed?

I stepped in the shower momentarily after fixing my messy room. The water splashed on me like the cool rain outside. I didn't bother turning the heater on. The cold shower's the best place to rethink my life.

For once after the fall, I saw myself as a horrible person and not Sherlock whom I thought had left me. I remember thinking negatively when I first saw Sherlock again after the fall. I greeted him with two punches on the stomach and face. Then I remembered the times when he was gone. How I wanted to end my life, how I did my unusual routine, and how I silently despised him.

The cuts on my wrist showed as I washed the suds away from me. They were twenty-seven deep slashes. I remember slashing myself here in the shower, where the blood eventually poured in the drain, I proceeded to do more until Mrs. Hudson complained about the water shortages bellow the building.

I remember the time when I got too low about myself, decided to drink pills. If Greg hadn't paid me a visit even shortly after I drank the pills, Sherlock wouldn't have met anyone at the rooftop yesterday.

The mirror was misty after the shower. I decided to look at myself after two years of lazing up to even wash my face. Wiping the mist out of the mirror, I saw myself for the first time in history. Note the exaggeration.

Dear lord, I do look like a mess. The bags beneath my eyes revealed my sockets of stress. My ribcage was showing, and my shoulder blades weren't as pretty. My cheek bones showed too much, not revealing my cheeks themselves. Now I understood what Sherlock had felt during the movie. He felt at fault. Pity.

I put my clothes on. A usual jumper, pants, but I didn't bother wearing shoes. Just my socks, springing me out of my room with wet hair.

Sherlock was seated at the table, gobbling up the crumpets on his plate. He looks famished, by the way he eats. I smiled. Well, at least he ate.

Maybe I should worry more about me, then. I should really gain more weight and pop the muscles out of me again.

"You like it?" I asked, leaning on the wall before the kitchen. "I didn't know you would eat, but I made you breakfast anyways."

Sherlock made a noise of approval, "How can I hate crumpets, John?"

I sat down in front of Sherlock, rolling my sleeves up, gobbling up the crumpets on my plate. God, I completely forgot how good these are. All I ate was biscuits and canned food. Occasionally, Mrs. Hudson would provide some cake, but they end up spoiling in the empty fridge. I only bothered to shop after the movie, knowing Sherlock was alive and that I needed to keep him that way.

I finished five crumpets, making sure I was full. And, oh, I was.

Sherlock noticed my wrist, but he wasn't pushing me. I think he already knew what had happened.

"So, Mycroft huh?" I cowed.

He swallowed, "Lunch. Send him a text message will you? These exact words; Sherlock is alive. Twelve p.m. sharp. 221B."

"I will, Sherlock, but have you really thought about this? You know he's the reason why you had to hide. He told Moriarty everything about you."

"Since when did I not think?" Can't remember. Point taken. "John, I want you to know that I want everything normal as soon as I'm back, and that's why we need Mycroft around."

"You'll be using your brother to regain attention. Okay, I get it."

"John it's not as bad as—"

"It's bloody brilliant, Sherlock!" I exclaimed.

Sherlock stared, amazed. I stared back. We broke to a laugh the moment later.

Sherlock offered to wash the plates. I insisted that I do it, but the man was persuasive. He said he wasn't solving anything and he needed something to keep his mind processing. He almost broke a glass but luckily his reflexes kicked in before the glass fell.

I sat on the kitchen counter while he washes the dishes, entertaining myself with the newspaper. When he was done, I saw him get a glass and pour water at the corner of my eye. He drank the glass. My peripheral vision told me he was looking at me, but I learned not to trust them. Looking at him, I realized that my peripheral vision was not making any mistakes.

He finished the glass of water, wiping the droplets on his old coat.

I turned back to the newspaper.

"What do you want to do today?" I broke the silence.

"Spend the day before the publicity outburst alone with you," He replied rather fast. He walked to the fridge and placed the pitcher of water back. "Before Mycroft starts again."

"Mycroft starts what?"

"Being Mycroft."

I helped Sherlock put his things back to order in his room. He tasked me to fold the clothes Molly bought him. Maybe he's putting it away. The Sherlock clothes were in the closet, pressed and clean. Ready for use.

Then I noticed he was wearing the exact clothes in his wardrobe. He's got two pairs?

"Are those the clothes you're wearing now?"

"Yes."

And that's how strange our conversation gets.

The rain stopped and a sunny disposition covered the area while we were doing our stuff.

After the fixing of clothes, Sherlock suggested we walk. I agreed to his request. My body needed a stretch too.

Sherlock convinced me to put shoes quickly. He pushed me out of the flat, almost stumbling from the staircase.

Sherlock stopped at some stalls, specifically pet shops. I wondered if it was the lab rats he was looking for, but to my surprise, he was looking at a golden retriever puppy.

Whatever happened to Sherlock during the fall, he must've hit his head hard.

"Look, John," He smiled like a five year old boy. I looked at the puppy by the glass of the shop.

"Cute?" I asked, not waiting for a response. "Now let's go."

Strange, how I get bored at some things. I'm like Sherlock before the fall, always getting bored at things. I was about to walk away, but Sherlock took my hand and dragged me inside.

The smell of animal shit filled the air. I didn't mind, but it was overpowering. Sherlock walked to the man in charge. I watched their lips move as the air filled with barks, chirps, meows, and other animal sounds. If I hadn't been mistaken, I even heard a grunt.

They walked towards the dog. Sherlock signaled me to come near.

Sherlock held the puppy to his chest. He let him bite his hand playfully. Sherlock smiled.

I never knew he liked dogs.

"So you two want dogs, eh?" The man in charge asked. "Nah, I don't mind. Other couples like dogs better than children. But it's impossible for you two, huh?"

"We're no—"

"Yes."

Sherlock and I both said, almost at the same time. I looked at Sherlock strangely.

"We're not a couple," I continued.

"Oh, I see," Bob (as what his nametag said) grinned. "A bit at war, you two, huh?"

Sherlock ignored the question. He was never a man of small talks. Whatever he's doing, I'm starting to get scared.

"We'll take dog food and a leash with him,"

"Wait, Sherlock, what are you doing?" I protested.

"Getting a dog."

We walked out of the pet shop with a puppy. Sherlock decided he's call it Hamish. After me.

I rolled my eyes at him, carrying a dog in his arms.

We sat down the grass, Sherlock placing his coat to protect our butts from getting wet from the rainfall. Hamish tugged on my jumpers. I pulled him on my lap and rubbed his belly.

"Hello, Hamish," I smiled. I wasn't cruel-hearted over him. Sherlock just wasn't making any sense these past two days, that's all.

I lifted Hamish and touched his nose with mine. Hamish licked it instead. I cuddled him and placed him on my lap.

Sherlock watched us in the corner of his eyes.

"Let's invite Mycroft over," Sherlock suggested.

"Here? In the park? Where?"

"Here. In the park. That restaurants."

He pointed at _"Café El Germania," _the restaurant where I ate at the lunch of his funeral.

Hamish leapt off my lap, walking around us with the extendable leash. He licked Sherlock's hand, the one that supported him while sitting down. Sherlock took Hamish and placed it on his shoulders.

I texted Mycroft the exact things he ordered me to text him, minor changes of the location, though.

We waited for Mycroft on the grass, staring at the cars going inside the restaurant. Hamish barked, signaling he wanted to go down. Sherlock obeyed.

Hamish ran around us, his leash circling around and putting us too close together. The leash tied around. Sherlock decided that Hamish wanted a run.

Sherlock offered to walk him around. I came with them. I didn't mind a little walk. I wanted to cherish this moment, while we live in peace. When Mycroft comes, the army doctor and consulting detective are back to work.

My hands flung to my side as we walk. Sherlock holding the leash on his other hand, as the other one waved around.

"John, hold him for a moment," He pleaded, struggling from his breath. He took my empty hand and for a moment our skin touched, everything felt so secure. Like we would always be at this peace. He then placed the leash in my palm.

"John?" He asked. "John."

I woke up, realizing I was still in daze. Hamish managed to wrap the leash hole on my wrist.

"Not so easy having a pet, now is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He panted in front of me.

"Maybe we should think more of some things before we do it, now, shouldn't we?"

I feel like a father disciplining my son.

Lord I'm getting old.

We saw Mycroft get in the restaurant, managing to run after him. We were both covered in sweat as we reached the restaurant. Gladly, the sweat wasn't too foul to make us look terrible.

Sherlock was left outside. He wanted to compose himself before facing his brother, which left all the necessary introductions of the situation to me.

"Where is he?" Mycroft spat, just as I sat. "You said Sherlock was alive. Now, where is he?"

"He's outside, composing himself."

Hamish barked under the table, biting Mycroft's shoe. Mycroft kicked him.

"Mycroft!" I snapped, taking Hamish in my arms.

"Pardon me, John, but why bring a pet to such a big event?"

"Sherlock bought it before going here, Mycroft. What you kicked there was Sherlock's pet."

I wanted to add a certain profanity and write it on his forehead.

I explained Mycroft the whole thing, including Sherlock's publicity plans. He nodded at everything I said. Minutes later, Sherlock stepped inside. Mycroft stood up.

"There's no need for greetings, Mycroft," He raised a brow. "Now sit your ass down."

My eyes widened. So did Mycroft.

"You kicked his nose, you bastard," He gritted through his teeth. "The nose is the most sensitive part of a dog, don't you know that?"

Mycroft kept silent.

"Were you watching us?" I squeaked. The most awkward moment of all was to interrupt a Sherlock from getting mad.

"No. I never. But judging from Hamish's nose nuzzling on your jumper, I guess he did hurt himself. The leather's off on the top of Mycroft's shoe, I assume it was a nibble from Hamish. Hamish was on the floor, leading Mycroft to kick him."

Sherlock was furious. By the time he ended his deduction, his face was angrily pointed at Mycroft.

Hamish leapt off my lap and ran to Sherlock again. Sherlock carried Hamish and walked towards Mycroft, putting Hamish on his lap. Mycroft fidgeted at first, but soon came to realize that Sherlock isn't going to stop until he lets him put Hamish on his lap.

"Apologize," He ordered.

"What?" Mycroft stared.

"Not repeating it."

I giggled slightly, watching Mycroft get bullied by Sherlock.

"I—I'm sorry," He stuttered.

Sherlock smirked, winking at me.

Somehow, Sherlock managed to make people smile rather than want to kill him. I'm pretty sure Mycroft wanted to, but he deserves to get bullied, anyways.

Mycroft kept silent throughout the lunch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**-

I woke up on the couch, Hamish on my stomach. I lifted myself a tad bit up, trying not to wake the nuzzled dog on my torso. But dogs have keen senses. As soon as I lifted myself, Hamish hovered his head up attentively, only to see his master perfectly awake. Hamish walked up to my face and licked it. I didn't exactly expect his reaction to be so excited, after all, I did wake him up.

I kissed the top of Hamish's head. Two months and Hamish has grown so big.

Two months, and gladly, I've gained some more weight, starting a new and healthy life again.

I lifted Hamish to the ground. Sherlock had permitted him to roam around. Somehow, Sherlock had spoilt the dog a bit.

The kitchen now has a dog litter box at the side of the sink. The location was Sherlock's idea, so the crap wouldn't stink the dining area or the living room. My opinion was that the scent might be absorbed by the food, but Sherlock and I never really ate lunch or dinner here. Just breakfast.

Speaking of breakfast, I really need to get cooking.

But then I noticed that I didn't need to.

Sherlock's hand was pressed on the pan handle, frying some bacon by the smell of it. He groaned from the oil popping, dodging the thick liquid. I managed to catch his attention through my slight chuckles. I then sat down the counter table as I watched Hamish do his business on the other end of the room. Sherlock looked silly cooking meals and fencing with the oil, giving me nasty looks whenever I giggle.

I followed Sherlock to the dining room. Sherlock set the bacon after convincing himself that the texture is fine.

"Anything you'd like to do today?" I asked.

"I desire for a case, John, as of what am I going to do today, that subjectively depends on Lestrade if ever he emails or texts me regarding a new case that will interest me or get extremely bored in this hell hole that you call flat."

"Well, you're not in a good mood."

"I was, until I wanted to pulverize the frying pan."

The bacon was great. The crisp and the juice were at balance. I never knew Sherlock could cook like this. Probably beginners luck. Sherlock dug in his cooking like he loved it so much, and I'm pretty sure he did. Hamish begged for a piece but Sherlock was quite certain about the dog food we bought the pup. The consulting detective was worried about Hamish's health.

Hamish barked under the table, biting on Sherlock's pants. Sherlock took Hamish and placed him in his cage right next to the door. Hamish barked even more.

"Shhh!" Sherlock shushed, his finger at his lips.

Hamish disobeyed Sherlock.

Sherlock and Hamish looked adorable as long as their doing things together no matter how disturbing they both might be. Hamish annoys the shit load on Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock does the same to me. I guess this is why they both get together so much.

"Oh, alright," Sherlock gave up, opening the cage door to let Hamish out. "But still no bacon for you."

Hamish whimpered.

Sherlock examined Hamish, squinting his eyes. He sat down beside the four month old puppy and checked for fleas.

"Johnnyboy," Sherlock called. "Let's give Hamish a bath, now shall we?"

"Bored?"

"I'm afraid so, yes."

Although Sherlock loved Hamish so much, I was always the pups nannybot, assigned to give him a bath. The only thing you'd hear in the flat was always, "John do this," or "John get that."

I'm not saying Sherlock had not improved even a little bit. Actually, he's not tasked to manage the doggy litter and wash the dishes but he does it anyway. Sherlock sometimes filled the pitchers with water, if he ever gets bored which is good because Sherlock's always bored these past few days.

Sherlock filled the tub. He's cautious about the water temperature. We scrubbed Hamish with his shampoo, taking out the dirt buried deep inside his paws. Hamish protested, splashing the water all over the place. Once bath time was done, Hamish shook and the bathroom was left like a hurricane just passed by.

Under the bathroom sink was a cupboard only for Hamish, his shampoo, his hairdryer, his towel, his spare leash, et cetera. Et cetera. Sherlock spoilt Hamish.

Of course, the disciplining was left to no other flat mate (because I'm his only flat mate) but me. Lucky Hamish is a smart dog.

Sherlock enjoyed giving Hamish a bath. He did most of the work, even the blow drying. Parenthood looked so natural to Sherlock, even it was a dog. No one could ever see that coming. A good daddy Sherlock.

The bell rang while Sherlock was combing Hamish's short locks. I propped up the toilet seat to where Hamish was sitting above me while Sherlock groomed him. I handed Sherlock the pup carefully as I sprinted to the door.

Lestrade's grin was what I was greeted with, a flashy white smile.

"Bleached teeth?" I suspected. "You didn't have that white teeth before."

His grin faded, "Yeah."

"Seeing someone?"

"Yeah."

"The divorce was quick."

"Um actually..."

"Yeah I know," The divorce process wasn't done yet. "Just get in."

Greg got inside the house. I've completely forgotten the mess we made while giving Hamish a shower; water springing out of the bathroom to the living room tiles, the muddy feet, the bacon on the floor.

Woops.

Greg had a shocked face embedded on his head. I'm not surprise Greg is. Greg knew Sherlock's messy, but not this messy.

"Er," I cut the silence. "Have a seat. I'll just call Sherlock."

"That sound good." Lestrade faked a smile and nodded.

I dusted the sofa with my pillow, fluffing the case. Greg sat down.

I ran to the bathroom and found Hamish all dried up and presentable. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked quite opposite. So do I.

"Greg," I whispered.

"Yes I know," Sherlock snapped. "I can smell him," He added. "Run to the rooms and get us something to wear."

He can smell him?

Welp, Sherlock's as normal as it can get.

I did what he told me, getting some clothes for both of us. We rushed to get changed inside the bathroom. Quite awkward, me changing clothes inside the bathroom with him, but we had to rush.

Sherlock went out of the bathroom ahead of me, with Hamish running behind him. Lestrade stared as he watched me with a perfectly new outfit.

Hamish barked at Lestrade's foot.

"Now, Hamish," Sherlock called. Hamish ran to the consulting detective.

"Your dog?" Lestrade asked me.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "Our. Our dog."

Greg's eyebrows lifted, his mouth curved to an "Oh." I blushed slightly behind Sherlock.

_"Calm down, John," I thought. "He doesn't know what he's doing."_

The detective inspector explained he was called by no other than Mrs. Hudson over to lunch. Greg hoped if we could join him, which, to no ones surprise, Sherlock had denied.

"C'mon, Sherly," I pleaded. "We don't have anything to do in this er, hellhole."

"Please," Greg helped. "Sherly."

"Don't call me Sherly."

Eventually, Sherlock gave up from the nagging and allowed us both to eat with Mrs. Hudson.

Bellow the flat was good smelling beef casserole and pudding. Mrs. Hudson had put out his best chinaware for the moment. Sherlock's return had been two months, yet the old lady still seemed happy.

I remember when Sherlock said that if Mrs. Hudson had left Bakerstreet, England would fall. The memories started making me smirk out of the blue but I didn't mind doing so. Though Greg gave me strange looks, I managed to straighten my face.

Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock to speak with her privately, probably to thank him with something like oh I don't know, being alive? I was left with Greg, who still gave me funny looks.

"You and Sherlock?" He asked. "It's—It's really fine, you know. You both strengthen each other and Sherlock would even die to save you. Lucky lad now, eh?

_Badum-tss._

Alright that does it. "I'm not actually gay, Greg."

"Oh," Greg blushed. "I'm sorry, mate. It's just the dog and watching both of you get out of the bathroom and…"

"I—I get it," I stopped him from talking.

Awkward silence.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson came back moments later.

"So, both of you—" Mrs. Hudson started.

"No," I replied flatly.

All three eyes beamed across the table to me.

"Yes, John's right," Sherlock confirmed. I could've sworn he sounded solemn. "No. We aren't together."

"I was supposed to ask if you haven't got any cases, boys," Mrs. Hudson cleared. "No need to get excited."

Sherlock and I got a tad bit humiliated. Worse enough Mrs. Hudson clarified herself, now Greg's giggling with her.

The lunch ended quite long. The clock pointed at Three o'clock.

"Shall we go upstairs, Lestrade?" Sherlock offered. "Any cases you'd like to propose?"

Greg nodded, sipping tea from his cup, "Actually, that's another reason why I came here. Thought I discuss the matter with before I get going."

"We'd better get upstairs in that case," I suggested. "Privacy matters, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, I know, dear," She smiled.

We went up after saying our good byes to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock slammed the door shut as Hamish barks to greet us. We sat down and the pup ran to my lap. I scratched it with my fingers and let him play bite. Sherlock stared at us, jealous.

"There's been a murder," Greg noted. "Well, almost, actually."

"Sorry, but what do you mean almost?" I questioned.

The Detective Inspector sighed, "Her name's Chantelle Porscia Constantine. She works for the army a couple of years ago, decided it would be time to end her career. Three weeks ago, she was found after being missing for two days stripped off her clothes inside her vehicle, no scars, no notes of sexual assault, but she claims to have been sexually assaulted by a man she didn't quite see."

"She's alive, then?"

"Yes, she is."

Sherlock stood, "You're wasting our time. I don't do private consultations."

"Sherlock, I'm here, the police is involved. How can it be a private consultation?" Greg pointed.

"Three weeks, why did I just know now? You know why? Because the girl only told you three weeks after the scene itself. She wants me to investigate, therefore the police are ruled out and yes, this is, in fact, a private investigation."

"Sherlock, it's not like that. I told her not to disrupt you in the moment. You know, after going public."

"She's a client, Greg. You don't tell client's you deny her favor unless—"

"Unless you've got a personal relationship with her," I butted in.

Greg kept silent. We waited for his reply.

He sighed.

"Just don't tell my wife, okay? Well, soon ex-wife," He finally said. "We need you here, Sherlock."

"I don't understand. If you care about her then why make her wait for three weeks?"

"Because I thought the team could solve it without your help and the fact that you've just broken the news, Sherlock."

I stood, opening the door for Lestrade.

"Police station, ten in the morning, we'll be there," I smiled.

"Thank you, John," Greg stood. "Will you?" He turned to Sherlock.

"Just go," Sherlock hesitated to answer.

Greg walked out, dismayed at the outcome of his talk with Sherlock.

Sherlock sat down on his couch in an owl position, like always. Hamish reached for him and licked his foot. Sherlock ignored the pup.

"Explain," He demanded.

"What?"

"Tomorrow. Lestrade. Explain."

"Look, Sherlock, I know you're just back in the world but your friend that you also almost died for is asking for your help and you told him what he's asking for is completely meaningless. Besides, you're getting bored and maybe we should take Hamish with us."

"Oh, so I don't get to decide whether to accept the case or not?"

"Sherlock," I calmed. "Sherlock, you're bored. You clean the bloody house when you're bored. This case is better than tidying things up. Besides, you're going to accept it anyways."

"And what if I don't?"

"Trust me, Sherlock, you will. If not tomorrow, then soon."

For once, Sherlock didn't say anything. I was right. _I was right!_


End file.
